


Penguins

by i_never_tend_to_finish_things



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Possessive Crowley, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27682276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_never_tend_to_finish_things/pseuds/i_never_tend_to_finish_things
Summary: A little fic about Crowley revealing a bit more than he would have liked to about his feelings to Aziraphale in a moment of jealousy. This, of course, leads to confessions, sex, and drunken conversations about knighted penguins.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 110





	1. Liquor

**A/N this is the first little part, smut on its way! hope you enjoy!**

The fiery-haired man was on his third bottle of wine and sixth glass of whiskey before the bartender thought she ought to say something. She should have earlier, really, but there was something so strikingly odd about him that she had lost her nerve every time he clanged his glass on the countertop. Perhaps it was the dark sunglasses in the middle of the night, or the way his lanky form swayed haphazardly on the barstool, muttering obscenities under his breath and crinkling his nose. With a few sidelong glances, she had noticed how occasionally his eyebrows would furrow and his lip pout, only to be chased off with a sudden scowl and a call for another drink. Eventually, when the bar quieted in the early hours of the morning and she felt he was going to die if she didn't intervene, the bartender cleared her throat.

"I'm sorry sir, I can't give you any more."

The man scoffed, lolling his head back in bemusement.

"'M fine."

"We're closing, anyway."

"Nrg."

The bartender shrugged tiredly as she began to clean the countertop, plucking the empty glasses and bottles from in front of him. He watched her, or so she thought as it was difficult to tell, lips moving as if muttering something over in contemplation, before he leaned forward in a drunken slump, long fingers fluttering as if ready to make a point.

"Can I...ask you somethin'?" He slurred, his spine still slithering around as if it was impossible for him to sit straight. She sighed, fixing him with a blank look.

"I'm not into men."

He looked bewildered for a moment, and then chuckled somewhat, shaking his head.

"No, that wasn't what...no, what I was going to say was...okay, let's say there's thissss guy." His hand slapped down on the bar so abruptly that the bartender barely noticed the hiss.

"Yes?" She asked, unenthused.

"And, and he's just this kinda...well he's just kinda _perfect_ and he's just...wandering around being...mph... _perfect_ and, and being so _blind_ to everything."

"Like, he sees the good in everything even if there isn't any?" She suggested, crossing her arms and a little intrigued. His eyebrows shot up immediately, accompanied by a frantic pointing.

"Yes! Yessss, that's exactly it! And let's just say that all you wanna do is warn him about people's..hrmph, _motivations_..."

She cracked a smirk, beginning to catch on to what was happening. "Mhm?"

"And, and he just asks _why? You scared the poor man half to death! How could you be so reckless!"_

He imitated a higher, prim voice, one that she could see he was trying hard to use mockingly but ultimately failed, trailing off sadly. A melancholic look overtook his face as he frowned and drew patterns on the cool, reflective surface of the bar with the tip of his finger.

"And...so what did you say?" The bartender probed, trying to be delicate. Obviously the guy was pretty banged up over it. 

"I-I just said, well, I _just said_..." He was grumbling, and she suspected his eyes were now on his shoes. 

"Mm?"

"I think I'll be going. Thanksss." Just as suddenly as he had said and done everything, he slipped off the stool and turned away, leaving a stack of notes before flitting his hand in a vague farewell gesture and sauntering out.

...

Crowley didn't know really where to go once he had stumbled out into the street. He thought that perhaps he should start to sober up and get a grip, but there was something unbearable about facing his thoughts without alcohol pulsing in his body. Besides, it was easier to be mad when drunk. And oh, he was so bloody _mad_ at a certain angel. 

Walking off in the general direction of his apartment (he thought it best not to risk a trip down to Hell with a likely discorporation in the Bentley, a very sensible thought that he was very impressed by having) he dug his hands deep into his pockets and scowled some more. A walk was probably what he needed. It was so easy to replay the night, even if he didn't want to...

It had been a regular evening by all standards. He was simply picking up Aziraphale for their scheduled dinner; the angel had heard that the new Japanese restaurant served the most divine ramen, garbling over a glass of wine. Crowley had just smirked, and said he would take him the next night, which of course granted him one of those beaming grins, a lovely coo of "oh, that would be _wonderful!_ ". It was a very common affair in the weeks they had spent after the almost-Apocalypse, so common in fact that Crowley knew something was amiss when the bookstore's sign still read 'open'. Then, he could smell it. Lust. Buckets of it, its stench wafting out from under the doorway, so sickly and strong that it made Crowley's head spin. Bursting into the shop, fangs practically bared, he had found a slightly annoyed Aziraphale trying to shuttle a book out of a young man's hands back onto the shelf. The rather attractive stranger was leering over the angel's shoulder once the book had been recovered, watching as he prattling on with the usual excuses of "oh, but I'm sure you really would not like it, it is rather dull indeed...". All the time, completely unaware of the man's hungry eyes, or how his hand was brushing faintly along the angel's elbow.

Oh, and he was also completely unaware of the stinking, rotting _musk_ of desire oozing out of the man's every pore. 

"Oh! Crowley, I won't be a moment." Aziraphale's radiant smile soothed some of the brutality, but certainly not the flaming burn sparking just under Crowley's skin. Fleshy bodies often had odd reactions to things, but the demon could feel this down to his very essence. A fiery surge of carnal possession. The man paid him little notice, until, at least, his fingers ghosted across the small of Aziraphale's back and Crowley let out a cold-blooded growl. 

There was barely time for a human to react before Crowley descended on him, tearing off his sunglasses along the way. The man shrieked at those golden, slitted eyes as he was pinned up to the wall, dark scales starting to spread across Crowley's flesh, the serpent in him threatening to bite the bastard's bloody head off. Snapping his fingers impatiently, the man's face was eased of terror and fell into something blank as Crowley snarled and hissed, his hand still pinning the stranger's shoulder crushingly to the wall. 

"You are going to leave, you are going to forget both of us and thissss bookshop, and you are never going to come back. Hear me?"

Letting the man down, he snapped again and the man simply walked out with a neutral sort of frown. The bookshop door closed, flipping the sign over with it.

A second passed. Crowley felt his scales recede back into skin, his breathing beginning to turn into something more normal, and then-

"What in _heavens_ was that all about?" Aziraphale hollered, all wide eyes and still clutching the book. Crowley slid on his sunglasses nonchalantly, though with a slight tremble, trying for an indifferent smirk. 

"I believe we had a dinner arrangement, angel."

Aziraphale huffed in disbelief, mouth still agape. This was a sting of tenderness at such a sweet sight, but Crowley was quick to swallow it down. 

"Why on earth did you do that?" 

Crowley shrugged, unsure of what to say. Words died on his tongue.

"He was making you late."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Crowley, you are a terrible liar, you know that."

_Clever bastard._

"You don't think...you don't think he was an informant? Sent from one of the sides, or both?" The panic in the angel's bright silver-blue eyes was enough to make Crowley crumble. Frustrated at the _cheek_ of the stranger, at the jealous rage that was still pounding through his head, at the way Aziraphale was looking at him, he gave up. He fixed him with a condescending stare before he could help it, but perhaps the angel couldn't see his eyes. Probably better that way. 

"Frankly 'Ziraphale, he was about two seconds from either getting you into bed or getting off just thinking about it." He stated bluntly, almost exhaustedly. Aziraphale's brow shot up, and when he realised Crowley wasn't joking, he looked away and swallowed awkwardly. 

"I didn't realise..." 

"No, because you can't sense lust. That's my job." Crowley tried to say it in understanding, but with the strain of his bubbling emotions it came out snarky. Aziraphale looked down to his feet while Crowley inwardly cursed. He was the last person to take this out on.

"I can sense it when I'm, you know, _responsive_. Or, that's what they told me at least." Aziraphale muttered, toeing a loose thread on his pant cuff absently. The thread promptly disappeared. 

"Has that ever...happened?" Crowley's voice had turned softer but gravelly. He pushed away a sudden surge of late-night thoughts, the fantasies that crawled about in his mind and made him feel pathetic. Of the angel, of laying him down, gently, so gently, onto the bed and unwrapping his clothes as if he was a gift, _Crowley's_ gift, all warmth and smiles. Of trailing his mouth, his tongue, across every inch of the angel's supple skin, sinking in his teeth and making whimpering little noises keen from between those blushing, rosebud lips...

Of after, of holding and being held on soiled bedsheets. Soft, dazed storm-blue eyes, a whisper in the dark. That particular image, however, was stored away tight, locked with a key and only opened when Crowley, on occasion, paced his home alone, chugging liquor and shooting scowls to his quivering houseplants. 

"Has what happened? The question broke through Crowley's haze. Flustered, he pretended to study a nearby book, flipping it over to blindly read the blurb.

"You ever been...responsive?" 

Aziraphale looked away, crimson beginning to bloom across his cheeks and down his neck.

"No."

_Oh, didn't he know he's a terrible liar?_

Thunderous silence roared between them, and it was Aziraphale to break it with indignation, as if in reminder of his anger.

"It was such a silly thing to do Crowley! You scared the poor man to death, and it was so reckless, considering we're supposed to be 'laying low' as you yourself said!"

"'S been _weeksss_ since all that all _didn't_ happen." Crowley reminded him, annoyed and setting the book down with a thud. It was done, couldn't they just go to dinner?

"Crowley, really, you must never do anything like that again!"

"Well, you're not gonna save yourself, now are you?" Crowley smirked, though the lightness in his tone was forced. 

"How did you know that I wanted to be saved?" 

Crowley snapped his head up at that, frantically studying the expressionless angel, who seemed to be almost _daring_ him. The residue rage still mulling about in Crowley's blood turned white-hot again. What the _fuck_ kind of question was that?

"Oh, so you _were_ responsive then, is that it? And now you're mad that I ruined all the fun?" Crowley stalked towards Aziraphale, words dripping heavy with venom. The angel's resolve seemed to break a bit, worry springing onto his face.

"No, no. It's simply that, well, I can make my own decisions about such matters thank you!" He protested huffily, trying to ignore how close Crowley had come to his face. Trying, and failing, as his gaze flickered helplessly to be met with its reflection in dark sunglasses. 

"Fine, fuck whoever you want then. That's fine, don't mind me, I'll just bugger off then I suppose." Crowley said it with a testy shrug, spun on his heel and headed for the door, feeling vaguely like he had just been slapped. 

"Crowley, no, only...why do you care?" The tone of Aziraphale's voice was gentle, ever-patient. There was no hint of mocking or bitterness, just genuine confusion. It made a dam in Crowley's chest cave in, crumble apart, weakened and worn over the centuries, half-demolished ever since he knelt in the burning bookshop, and, finally, the rest of it was washed away in a single burst.

"Why, Crowley?"

"Because you're _mine!_ "

Crowley groaned as his feet thrummed along the sidewalk, head heavy with alcohol and regret. Any grudge held towards Aziraphale's naivety was soon drowned in self-loathing. How had he said something so bloody _stupid_? Why had he let himself get so angry? There was no nastiness to be proven as a demon now, no, it just seemed he was an arsehole down to the bone. He remembered the silence, the 'o' Aziraphale had made with his mouth, the wish for the pits of Hell to open and swallow him up. He had fled without another word, slunk into a bar, and not remembered much after.

He fumbled around in the darkness of his flat, slurring curses to himself rather than the always-petrified houseplants. Crowley slumped at his desk. 

_"Because you're **mine**!"_

It wasn't what he had meant to say, he knew that, but there was something about the silence after, the shock that had seemed to burst from the angel that made him feel miserable. It was as if the thoughts in his mind that had sounded bad, had doubled and became horrible, ludicrous, appalling as they rang in the clear open air as words. What did that even mean? Damn it, it was hard to put things together with his mind all tangled up. He hated being alone with his muggy head, hating himself because if he hadn't acted like an arse and royally fucked everything he could have been bundled up with Aziraphale right now, drinking antique wine and talking about something wretched, the angel admonishing him even with a brilliant smile on his hazy, delirious face.

But, no. As he drifted in and out of blurry reality, wondering if he should just go to bed and sleep another century or so until it had all blown over, (after all, he could dream about a sunny-haired angel in his arms that way) he was disturbed by a series of quiet knocks at the door. He stiffened, but upon recognising the familiar scent that was beginning to ease into the room, he shot up and ran to fling open the door. 

An obviously fretting Aziraphale was wringing his hands as he stood in the doorway, glancing up anxiously with eyes the colour of a summer storm. That dear, blushing face was twisted up with a knitted brow as if he had something pressing to say.

"'Ziraphale." Crowley gasped in that soft way, when he was drunk and sad.

"I'm sorry to come over so suddenly, but I just thought, well..." Aziraphale started, not quite looking at him. Immediately, Crowley moved to the side to usher him in, heart fluttering, damn thing, without him asking it to.

**....**


	2. Norwegian Penguins

**A/N here is a next little sappy bit, more is on the way! thanks for reading!**

The angel hadn't been in the demon's flat since after they had thwarted the forces of Heaven and Hell. They hadn't really wanted to be alone that night, and so sat up together in the ridiculously plush bed (Crowley had never purchased a couch, given he never had any company) and mulled over what Agnes Nutter's prophecy had meant. Seeing the primly dressed angel perched in his bed had nearly undone Crowley, coupled by the very real prospect of never seeing him again. But he _had_ seen him again, and Aziraphale now stood uncomfortably by the desk, watching Crowley strip off his sunglasses. Golden eyes blazed in the dim light, softening as they met Aziraphale's. 

"M' sorry angel, was bad tonight. Can we just...forget it ever happened?" His voice lilted up in a plea, and he realised he didn't even care. He just wished Aziraphale would nod, would start rambling on about one of his books like he usually did, and then he could bury all this nonsense churning in his chest and everything could be as it was.

"I actually wanted to talk about it, if it's all the same to you." Aziraphale clasped his hands together to stop them fidgeting, posing his request. Crowley felt his stomach sink.

"Nrggg..."

"Is that alright, Crowley?" He fixed him with an open stare, an air of reservation in his tone. Crowley shook his head dismissively with an indifferent sort of frown. 

"Doesn't matter. Wanna drink?" He pivoted both metaphorically and literally, sauntering over to the liquor cabinet as if there was not an electrified tension between them. They hadn't had any uneasiness since they decided at Tadfield airbase, really and truly, that they were on their _own_ side. Crowley hated the foreign strain in the room, hated that he had caused it, fuck, he needed another drink. 

"Yes, please. Scotch would be lovely."

Crowley simply nodded and poured them both a glass, handing it to him without so much as a glance. Aziraphale thanked him politely and shortly. This felt...odd. There had never been formalities between them, there had never been due process and pomp. Dear... _Someone,_ why was the air so thick with silence?

Minutes passed, but it felt like hours. Crowley was desperate at several points to just tell him sorry, that really, it meant nothing, that really everything was fine, and oh, he had heard the damned-near stupidest thing about Norway and how they knighted a _penguin_ , bloody hell, what would be next? A lobster? But there was something contemplative in the angel's frown as he traced the rim of his glass, like he was thinking over a rather deceptive riddle or a deeply philosophical poem. Crowley knew that look, so instead of spewing out gibberish he just sloshed back his drink. 

"Crowley, did you really mean what you said, back before Tadfield?"

"What?"

Aziraphale's ears turned red, which fascinated Crowley to no end, swaying dangerously as he was.

"When you asked me to...run away to Alpha Centuri with you."

Crowley's head spun, but Aziraphale didn't look up from his glass.

"Was a stupid idea, really." Crowley mumbled, turning his back to pour another scotch, hiding the twitch in his eyebrow as he relived those moments.

 _"Alpha Centuri, lots of spare planets up there, nobody would even notice us!"  
_ _"Don't be ridiculous Crowley!"_

"I wanted to go with you." Aziraphale said, barely above a whisper, gaze suddenly searing into his. Those eyes could pierce to his very core and steady him at the same time, like a lightning bolt haloed in heavenly warmth. Maybe his eyes were what had done it, Crowley pondered drunkenly, on the wall of a doomed garden so many years ago. Once he had been caught in their clear, bright hold he was gone. He felt his heart unfurl and something in his throat tighten.

"You did?"

"Yes. I just wanted to save humanity more. I know you did too."

Crowley nodded skittishly, looked away and tried to call back his casual demeanour as he took a sip, finding it hard to swallow. _I only wanted to leave to protect you, I would have burned with his beautiful blasted planet, I only wanted to keep you safe damnit..._

"Mmm."

"What I'm trying to say, Crowley, is that I've thought about it and..." The angel was twisting his glass, blushing deeply now, but with that determination he so admired etched onto his face. It was a determination Crowley equalled in the attempt to steer the conversation away from such...topics.

"Doesn't matter Aziraphale. We're all good now, yeah? What does any of that matter now?"

"Crowley, please, maybe you should sober up."

"Why would you care?" He didn't mean the snarl in his voice but he couldn't help it, he really couldn't help it, and Aziraphale looked crestfallen, genuinely wounded, and all Crowley could do was bite down on the inside of his cheek. Hard.

"Because I _care_ about you." He said in his fussy way, as if it was something so obvious and he was simply flabbergasted that Crowley couldn't see that. Crowley had to snicker ironically at at how loudly and unabashedly he said such a thing, given how the angel had spent many millennia denying just that. 

"Sure."

"Don't be like this." Aziraphale fretted, fidgeting and hurrying frightfully close to Crowley's back, where he was turned, messily pouring another scotch.

"Be like what?"

"I can tell when something is _wrong,_ Crowley." That same indignant tone, and it made the demon both bristle and ache. He could smell the mustiness of the bookshop on his tartan coat, the peppermint cologne on his jaw, and his temples were throbbing and Someone help him, the angel was _too close._

"Nothin's wrong." 

"Crowley..."

"Stop prodding about in things, angel. Just leave it be." It was a growl, a warning. He still didn't turn around.

"Then talk to me!" Crowley knew Aziraphale like he knew the inside of himself, and he knew he would never give this up. The notion made him faintly nauseous. They hadn't really spoken about all the events in that week of almost-Armageddon, and Crowley had hoped they never would, but when he saw that lusty man in the bookshop the hot wire that had been fizzling in him for weeks finally burst into flames. He finally realised what he had wanted to say to Aziraphale today.

_I don't wanna lose you._

But that isn't what he said.

"About what? About how we barely survived the bloody end of the world because you didn't tell me the _fucking Antichrist's_ address that you'd had a whole damn day? About how 'm a disgusting demon who can't be trusted? About how when I found the bookshop, and I couldn't find you _anywhere_..." Something caught in his chest, and so the words trailed off with a strained wobble. He shot back his drink, giving himself a moment to set his face straight before turning, eased at least by how the alcohol had drowned most of the weird, fragile thing breaking inside of him. Aziraphale was sad and worried, brow scrunched adorably. The thing inside cracked, splintered.

_I thought you were dead I thought you were really dead I thought you were truly, properly dead...I didn't know what to do what would I do you were all I had you are all I have..._

"Crowley, I am so sorry." A heartbroken whisper filled with shame and remorse. Oh, what a cock-up. He had made Aziraphale feel guilty, feel _bad_ about things that were stupid and silly and that he had forgiven him for in moments. The bookshop burned in his head. The thing inside shattered like glass. Aziraphale's glorious eyes widened as he gasped. 

"Oh, my _dear_..."

"Oh, fuck that's right, I had this thing I wanted to tell you about Norway..."

"Crowley-"

"So they knighted a _penguin_ , a damn _penguin!_ And he's just waddling about in fucking Edinburgh Zoo of all places! How the hell did we miss that?"

Was that really his voice? He could barely recognise it, it sounded like he was underwater. Why was his sight so blurry?

" _Crowley-_ "

"And he's the third in this line of penguins they've been giving bloody decorations to! 'S been going on since the _fucking seventies_ _!"_

_"Crowley!"_

Suddenly, warm hands were around Crowley's cheeks, encasing his face. Warm, so warm, they made his skin hum and spark. Aziraphale's eyes, face, hands...time seemed to stop but he hadn't willed it, and he couldn't feel anything, really, except for Aziraphale's palms and how perfect they were moulded around him. They had _never_ touched like this. Never with this kind of tenderness. He blinked, and grey drops clung to his eyelashes. 

"Oh." He finally choked.

A beautiful, endearing smile blossomed on his angel's face as fingers began carefully brushing away hot tears Crowley didn't even realise were falling steadily from his eyes. Slightly mortified and stunned, he came to reality and pulled away, turning his back hurriedly and running the back of his sleeve under his nose. _Bloody corporal fleshy bodies with their random dripping._ He tried to fight the strange, suffocating tsunami that started in his stomach and rolled up into his chest and throat and-

"My dear..."

Strong arms were pulling him into an engulfing hug, and he immediately crumpled, burying his face in that lovely spot between Aziraphale's neck and shoulder, breathing in his homely, clean scent. His back shook from constricted sobs, which made him feel even more silly, but he felt the heaviness lighten as hands came up to trace a slow line from his nape to his tailbone. 

"M' drunk." Crowley mumbled defensively through tight keens. Aziraphale only kept stroking his spine in that calming way, nodding solemnly. 

"I know, my darling." Melancholy seeped into the gentle coo, and Crowley clung to him even tighter.

"'M sorry."

"Whatever for?" 

"For saying all that, for not lying low, for being an arsehole, for making you miss ramen." His words were slightly muffled by Aziraphale's coat lapel, but there was no way he coming out of this beautiful nest, nose pressed against the angel's pulse point. He didn't have to think about what this all meant right now, not here. He had never in his eons of existence known something as perfect as this.

Eternity could be spent in this little nook. 


	3. Kiss

**A/N i'm sorry i fell off posting!! am back on it, here is another chapter!**

The last remnants of moonlight began to creep around the edges of the room. Crowley, at several moments lost in time, thought he really ought to let go, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to tear away from the cocoon of softness curled all around him. Especially not when the angel was still caressing his back, making the raw wound inside numb little by little. Warm, he was so warm.

After what could have been minutes or hours, he dared to peek up at the angel’s eyes, pulling back ever so slightly from the tartan shoulder, his cheek brushing against impossibly soft, white curls. He was met with glossy azure, a sheen of thoughtfulness making them bright, and a gentle smile. Crowley felt a burn in his skin, realising there was no way to come back from such a bloody pathetic show, but it was all soon erased from his pounding head as a hand came up to run through his fiery, auburn mop of hair. The sweetness in that act, its pure tenderness, washed over Crowley until he could feel his heart stammering, getting louder and harder until all he could hear was it pumping in his ears.

_Angel..._

He felt the angel’s beautiful fingers curl slightly against his scalp, massaging gently, and any wavering semblance of control Crowley had left simply broke. Aziraphale let out a sigh, as if he was about to say something, but it was left forgotten when Crowley lurched up to crush his mouth against those breathy lips in a desperate, all-consuming kiss.

Aziraphale’s lips were just as he had always imagined them, so soft and supple, even when they were frozen, trembling under his coveting mouth. The demon’s mind was reeling as it was left behind, completely at the mercy of impulse, of the sensations wracking his body. His senses were overfilled, sparking with the touch of the angel’s soft skin, the flavour of his honeyed lips, and it was as if everything had fallen out of this plane of existence. Slowly, as the moonlight danced behind Crowley's eyelids, rationality began to trickle into the front of his mind, cold and harsh, and the moment snapped to a close when Aziraphale pulled away.

A heartbeat. Something hard panged in Crowley’s gut as he watched Aziraphale turn hurriedly, putting his back to him, a shaking hand reaching up to cover the mouth the demon had just kissed. Crowley’s chest felt tight, and it was a struggle to breathe as his tangled mind began to process what had just happened, what he had just done. The slitted pupils in his golden eyes narrowed in horror.

“Angel, fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

He had barely reached out to touch the angel’s shoulder when Aziraphale began pacing to the door sternly, yet with a mark of panic. Crowley stumbled after him, trying to grab a hand, anything really, that would get him to stay and just listen. What would he say? Crowley’s temples throbbed, the room seeming to tip and he felt sick, frightfully sick and then Aziraphale was reaching for the handle.

“Please, ‘Zira. Please.”

Aziraphale stilled, half-turning back to him. Everything about his profile was unreadable, and oh, fuck, Crowley wished he really had been asleep this whole time, trapped in a particularly grotesque nightmare that he could at least wake from.

“You’re drunk.” Was all the angel said, edged with anger and yet laced with quiet sadness.

“Hold on, just hold on angel.”

Keeping his eyes firmly closed, Crowley drained his blood of the remaining alcohol, tensing his limbs and giving a croaky groan. It left a bad taste in his mouth, but he felt substantially clearer in the head. Not that it helped the situation really, because now without the numbing liquor he could feel the residue heat of the angel's lips and the sticky, aching sting in his chest.

“M’ sorry angel, can we just…forget tonight ever happened?” Crowley couldn't care about the desperation, running a hand through his hair, flustered and unsure of what the fuck to do. It was if the stark line that had always separated them, despite it drawing ever closer over centuries past, becoming smudged, blurred, almost non-existent, had finally been crossed.

Aziraphale turned a little more to face him, hands fidgeting, and there were tears in his eyes. Crowley felt like someone had stabbed a knife through his gut.

_Oh, what a fuck up._

“Oh, fuck, angel…” He whispered, golden eyes wide and brows knitted.

“Were you just drunk? Tell me now, I need to know…now.” Aziraphale’s face was scrunched up, trying to hide the tightness in his voice as he hiccuped out the sentence. His hands were still writhing, his usually impeccable posture slumping, as if caving in on himself. Crowley just wanted to coil himself around him and never let go, but remained stuck to his place.

_Angel, I..._

“Angel, I…I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.” He confessed, his lips moving to echo the words in his head. They lingered in the air between them, almost unreal, and Crowley felt white wasps of panic in his throat and he couldn’t open his eyes in case he saw the disgust, the fear that he knew was on Aziraphale’s face.

It didn’t matter, however, as he felt a presence shift closer to him, and then, there was a sweet sigh against his skin before a pair of even sweeter lips fell onto his.

Crowley’s eyes sprung open, and yes, Aziraphale was kissing him, hesitantly, ever so gently, unsure and fumbling but _so wonderfully_. It was if someone had both lit a fire in Crowley’s chest and doused him with cold water. He was stunned, motionless for a moment, before he realised with a delirious thought that _Aziraphale was kissing him_ and he came to life in an instant, lunging with such force that their teeth clicked, both hands wrapping around the angel’s blushing face.

_Slow down, slow down…_

With a spell of clarity, Crowley eased his devouring pace to tenderly caress Aziraphale’s lips, savouring his taste and secretly delighting at the way a careful hand came to curl around his neck. Slowly, gently, he nipped at his mouth for entrance, and Aziraphale let him deepen the kiss willingly, a quiet whimper escaping his throat as Crowley ran his tongue along the backs of his teeth.

_Oh, fuck._

Crowley felt himself bristle, a surge akin to electric racing through his limbs. The sound drew out something white-hot simmering just beneath his skin, and in a burst, the angel was pushed flush against the door, every inch of Crowley against him.

Aziraphale gasped out a shocked or scandalised noise but it was easily swallowed up by Crowley’s ravenous mouth. He could feel the demon’s slim chest sliding against his, both spindly hands holding his shoulders, a long, black-jeaned leg slotted between both of his. The angel’s mind had become rather muddled, he dared say, and everything that he had been wanting to say, everything he had stitched together carefully over the course of the night to finally dictate was torn and forgotten. All he could do was cling to tangents in his thoughts as he melted under Crowley’s kiss and touch, and oh, _could anything feel so divine_ …

_I am sorry for pushing you away, I am sorry for hurting you…_

_You are my best friend, you are all I have, and well, I am starting to realise my dear, that you are all I have ever had…_

_A tingle in my toes, I am sure of that, in Rome, and then it reached my fingertips in the Globe, and I could have sworn I heard it buzzing through my chest at the Bastille, you beautiful, wily…_

The day had been a bit of a disaster, Aziraphale had to admit. He knew he was a little blind to lust, but he hadn’t truly appreciated how sensitive Crowley was to it, as if he was a metal detector for desire. He had tried to imagine, in the hours spent fretting and pacing in his bookshop, someone coming and pouring out love for Crowley, something Aziraphale was highly receptive to (he was a being of love, after all), and he couldn’t help but have squirmed.

And when Crowley had lunged, fangs bared, slightly feral to tell him he was, in fact, _his_ , it had unlocked and set loose those centuries of wishing for him, of needing him, of _wanting_ him in a way that the angel had insisted was wholly improper. Within the last few hours he had nursed a small, mad hope that maybe Crowley felt like that too. That, perhaps, he had been wanting in the same way, that, just maybe, with no one watching, they could be together in whatever way that entailed.

Crowley ducked his head and, with a flash of golden eyes, began to press reverent, wet kisses up along the column of Aziraphale’s throat. The sensation shot up the angel’s spine like a bullet of lightning. A liquid heat pooled low in his core, and it was all very strange, but not entirely foreign; a whisper of such feelings had occurred when they had been sprawled over a bed, drunk and mulling over their fates, or perhaps just whenever he had let his sight linger on Crowley’s coy smile and serpentine hips…

Aziraphale tasted like summer sunshine, but now there was something heady to the kiss as Crowley captured his lips once again, and his eyes shot open as he realised the aroma filtering into the air between them. Sweet and musky, rich and heavy, decidedly the most delicious scent in the universe, and it was unmistakable. Lust, _Aziraphale’s_ lust. Oh, so he _was_ _responsive_ then. Grinning wolfishly, he carefully bit on the bottom of Aziraphale’s lip, eliciting a mewling little moan.

“Crowley, I-I…” Aziraphale started, eyes blooming with desire, yet brows slightly twinged, as if there was something pressing to say. Crowley couldn’t stand it; he knew he couldn’t hear anything that would shatter everything.

_Just let me forget, just forget for a moment…_

He kissed the scattered words off Aziraphale’s lips, humming disapproval that seemed almost like a plea of _not now, not now_. The angel seemed swayed to agreement, fingers tangling in Crowley’s hair and easing back against the door, pliant and soft. Crowley’s blood was scorching, his crotch tightening in abandon at such an image as the pressure in his core began to thicken. Aziraphale’s eyes found his, so blue and beautiful in the moonlight, open and shining with adoration. With trust. He was giving himself to Crowley, in this moment, giving his body with an earnestness reflected in his gaze. Without warning, Crowley thought he was going to cry.

_For fuck's sake, get a grip, I can't...not with you like this, angel..._

He choked down the sudden sob and pressed his mouth against the angel’s pulse point, sucking and kissing, until, in pure impulse and need, he bared his sharp teeth to sink into Azriaphale’s soft skin. The angel jolted and cried out, causing panic to pierce Crowley’s brain again. Frantically, he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s gently sloping shoulders and licked the mark in apology, dusting delicate kisses along Aziraphale’s jaw, his temple. Aziraphale sighed and closed his eyes in contentment, but with a tremble in his fingers, brought his hand against his throat to trace the bite. Crowley stilled, watching him, a throb of guilt and regret in his chest as the unbearable thought of the angel pulling away flitted from behind his eyes. After all, Aziraphale was beauty incarnate; rose pink and cream-skinned, soft-haired and azure-eyed. Crowley was a slithering reptile, angular and with eyes like a venomous predator. And he had just _bit_ this luminescent angel...what the fuck was he thinking?

Crowley had almost opened his mouth to explain, although he truly did not know what he would say, before Aziraphale’s eyes turned hazy and met his with a consumed intoxication. 

"Can you…do that again?”

There was something so timid in his voice, yet so wanting, and _fuck_ , it nearly caved Crowley’s knees. In a moment, Crowley was pushed back up against him, his cock hard and thick and his hips desperately trying not to twitch, because there was so much to _do_ , and all he really wanted was to focus, to remember. He left an open-mouthed kiss just above the previous mark, tongue lapping, before he bit his teeth into the angel’s throat, groaning deeply as Aziraphale whined and gasped in short, staccato breaths. His hands were suddenly pawing at Crowley’s chest, vaguely grabbing at his tight, black top as Crowley left bite after bite in his flesh. He could feel the desperation growing until it became manic, until there was nothing else, Aziraphale’s fingers clenching in his clothing, so much material separating them, shaking under his lips, and all Crowley’s mind rang clear with was _bed, bed, bed._


End file.
